<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Silver and Shadow by Saetha</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29240631">Silver and Shadow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha'>Saetha</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anniversary of Azanulbizar, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Dwarven rituals, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Past Character Death, no beta we die like Durin’s Folk at Azanulbizar, this is actully quite soft and domestic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:14:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29240631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Do you miss them?” Thorin asks. His eyes are closed, one hand on Dwalin’s side, fingers idly tracing the dips and bumps on his skin. Dwalin turns so that they are lying face to face. </i>
</p><p><i>“Every day,” he whispers. “Every moment, every hour. I would give everything to bring them back.” Thorin opens his eyes and looks at him then, his face a painting of silver and shadow in the glint of the moonlight from outside. He moves his hand upwards from Dwalin’s side, onto his shoulder, down along his arm until he can intertwine their fingers. </i><br/>*</p><p>Thorin can’t sleep, especially with the anniversary of Azanulbizar coming up. Dwalin stays with him through the nights until they both get some rest.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>febuwhump 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Silver and Shadow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>:) A surprise for all those of you who have followed me from the beginning and watched me grow as a writer throughout the years. Writing Dworin again was like slipping on an old sweater - still comfortable, still beautiful, tinged with longing and memory and a little bit like coming home. It just made me smile. I love comparing this with the first fic I've ever written and published here on AO3 for them and see how far I've come since then! The person who wrote this was so different and I wish I could give them a hug. </p><p>(This fic feels like a hug, to be honest. Both for past me and for all of you!)</p><p>Today's prompt was: Insomnia.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You shouldn’t be up.”</p><p>Dwalin finds Thorin standing next to the window, staring sightlessly into the darkness outside. He walks up to stand close to him but doesn’t touch. Thorin shivers slightly in the cold of the night air but  isn’t moving otherwise.</p><p>“Thorin. <em>Kurdel</em>.” Dwalin sighs and holds out the blanket he has brought with him. The motion seems to awaken Thorin from whatever place his mind has been dragging him to (and Dwalin knows, of course he knows where it is. His own mind has wandered there often enough, of late). He jerks, gives a quiet huff, and turns a little to face his One. There are dark rings of sleeplessness under his eyes and his skin is still deathly pale, a reminder of the fever that has been ravaging him for the past few nights. It was the result of a poisoned arrow that grazed his arm on a hunt more than a week ago, a wound so minor that nobody paid it any mind until Dwalin had found him unconscious in the forge one evening.</p><p>“Come back to bed.” Dwalin reaches out to touch him now, giving him plenty of time to move away. Thorin accepts his touch, accepts the blanket being put across his shoulders. Despite his words, Dwalin doesn’t immediately move them back to their room, brushing a stray hair from Thorin’s face instead. One of his side braids is coming loose, he notices distantly. They will have to redo it in the morning.</p><p>Thorin reaches up before he can pull his hand away, intertwines their fingers as he presses Dwalin’s hand against his cheek.</p><p>“You’re always warm,” he says, and there is just the faintest edge of a smile in his voice. “Always guiding me back.”</p><p>“Of course. You’d do the same for me.” Dwalin trails his thumb across Thorin’s cheek, presses softly into the skin. Thorin sighs, pulling at his hand and bringing it down to his mouth, until he can press a kiss against Dwalin’s scarred knuckles. His skin and lips are still fever-hot, eyes shining just a little too brightly.</p><p>“I would,” Thorin confirms. Dwalin just nods and pulls at his arm a little.</p><p>“Come back to bed,” he says again. “Before you make your fever worse.”</p><p>“I can’t sleep,” Thorin tells him, but he follows willingly, nonetheless. “Every time I close my eyes, all I see is death. I’d rather be awake.”</p><p>“It’s just the fever. And the anniversary coming up.” Dwalin has manoeuvred them back to bed again, has helped Thorin slip back under the covers. Thorin’s feet are icy, even though his forehead is still burning. He also knows that the fever has passed the worst of its peak, that Thorin will continue to improve, that its last remains will likely be gone by tomorrow evening.</p><p>“Do you miss them?” Thorin asks. His eyes are closed, one hand on Dwalin’s side, fingers idly tracing the dips and bumps on his skin. Dwalin turns so that they are lying face to face.</p><p>“Every day,” he whispers. “Every moment, every hour. I would give everything to bring them back.” Thorin opens his eyes and looks at him then, his face a painting of silver and shadow in the glint of the moonlight from outside. He moves his hand upwards from Dwalin’s side, onto his shoulder, down along his arm until he can intertwine their fingers.</p><p>“I know,” he says thickly, swallowing. “I would pay any price.” But there is none that can be paid, none that can reverse the ways of fate as it has been playing out for them.</p><p>“You should try and sleep.” Dwalin squeezes Thorin’s hand a little. “Tomorrow is a new day.” And sunshine usually helps illuminate that which they still have, reminding them that not everyone, not everything has been lost.</p><p>“I know,” Thorin says again, but when Dwalin wakes up the next morning, the rings under his eyes have only deepened.</p><p>He tries to distract his One by asking him his opinions on the piece of leathercraft he is working on and by showing him one of the books old Frár has been able to procure on his latest trade expedition with the Rangers. Dís joins them in the evening, complaining of an aching back and filled to the brim with stories about the happenings in the settlement, knowing full well that her brother isn’t allowed to leave his bed yet as per Óin’s instructions, always a recipe for his darker moods to surface.</p><p>Thorin is quiet throughout the day, distant, but his brooding hasn’t taken on the sharp edges and dark tones that it sometimes does and for Dwalin, that’s enough for now. They fall asleep side by side, Thorin’s calves pushed against his, an arm nestled across his shoulder.</p><p>When Dwalin wakes in the middle of the night, the other side of the bed is empty, again. The door to their room is closed and he knows that Thorin doesn’t expect him to follow, doesn’t expect him to try and drag him back to bed again. And perhaps he shouldn’t, perhaps he should just let it lie for one night, but he never can, feels himself drawn to his One, his heart, as if by an invisible band.</p><p>This night he simply brings two blankets, thick enough to protect them both from the worst of the chill and moves to stand next to Thorin. He puts the blanket across his shoulders and finds his fingers with his own, giving his hand a little squeeze. It takes a moment, but then Thorin squeezes back, shuffles a little so their shoulders are touching. He heaves a big sigh and drop his head on Dwalin’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything until they get back to bed that night.</p><p>“I wish I could sleep.” He whispers it into the darkness of the night, like a prayer to their Maker, a plea to the stone beneath their feet.</p><p>“You will,” Dwalin whispers back, shuffling just a little closer. “Until then, just make sure you don’t wander too far on your own.” Thorin rumbles a quite laugh at deep, deep inside his chest. It makes Dwalin want to press his head against the coarse hair on there, listen to the sound of Thorin, alive and breathing, next to him, until he can fall asleep.</p><p>This time, it is Thorin who drags them back to bed, squawking in indignation when Dwalin pushes his icy toes between his shins. Dwalin just smiles smugly, snuggling deeper into the covers. He falls asleep with the smile still painted on his face.</p><p>Thorin cannot sleep, not the night after nor the next one, and it becomes a ritual, almost, of quiet footsteps in the night, blankets draped across their bodies pressed together in a shared space, watching the sky outside range from clouds and storms to shining stars.</p><p>“You don’t have to come every night,” Thorin points out when the rain beats heavy against the walls and windows. “You should sleep. Be strong for the day ahead.” <em>Pretend that at least one of us is doing fine</em>. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Dwalin can hear the words anyway.</p><p>Dwalin just huffs and pulls his One a little closer.</p><p>“It’s not like I can sleep much either,” he admits. It’s true – Thorin has never woken him up by leaving, he startles awake on his own often enough, roused from sleep by nightmares of blood and empty eyes, and a slowly approaching darkness that eats up everything around him. Especially now, when the anniversary of Azanulbizar is so close at hand.</p><p>Thorin presses his forehead against Dwalin’s, nuzzles his nose in his hair.</p><p>“Then we’ll just rest here for a while,” he says. “Perhaps, things will be simpler once tomorrow is over.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Dwalin agrees. Neither of them sleep much that night; but then, this night at least, almost nobody does.</p><p>It has been ten years on the day since they saw their loved ones fall, saw the rough stone before Khazad-dûm stained in red and black leaking from corpses too numerous to count. They have found a new home here, in the Blue Mountains, but the memory of the battle has never been left behind, not by any of them. And today –</p><p>Thorin is the one who leads the procession into the cave once darkness has begun to fall over their settlement, illuminated only by the light of the stars above and the candles in their hands. They don’t live underground anymore, no longer surrounded by soothing walls of stone, but in this place, at least, they can take refuge, feel the reassuring sensation of rock all around them, try and communicate with their Maker, if they so wish. This place is also where they honour their dead.</p><p>The main cavern of the cave is just large enough to hold the population of their village. It has been carefully widened over the past years by gentle hands, enhancing the beauty of the rock rather than destroying it. The silence as they shuffle inside is absolute, no speaking, not even a cough. That is, until Thorin begins to sing. Soon enough, the dwarrows’ voices begin to rise up, joining him one by one, until the entire cave is reverberating with the strength of their voices. It is a song as ancient as their people, its words so old that barely anyone understands them anymore, save perhaps a few old historians. There is no need to understand the words, however; their meaning is ingrained deeply into all of their souls, written there in ink made of grief and community, of mourning and the strength that being with their people gives them.</p><p>Dwalin feels his brother’s shoulder brush against his and leans a little more strongly against him. Dís is on his other side, her hand finding his and squeezing it as she watches her brother, alone on a small dais, singing with his eyes closed, one hand trembling almost imperceptibly. When they finish the song, the tones take a moment to dissipate, sinking into the stone around them, weaving into it the weight of the memories they carry. Balin steps forward then, a roll of parchment in his hands. He gives Thorin a nod and places a hand on his shoulder, briefly. Thorin returns the gesture and draws Balin in, resting his forehead against his for just a moment, before he steps down from the dais, taking his place between Dwalin and his sister.</p><p>Balin clears his throat, closes his eyes for a moment, before he begins to read.</p><p>“Frerin, son of Thráin. Fundin, son of Farin…”</p><p>The names of the dead ring through the cavern, to settle in the stone next to their songs and their grief. There are far too many of them, and reading them takes a long time, but none of the dwarrows in the cavern moves or speaks, not until the last of the names has rung out through the air. Balin’s voice is hoarse by the time he speaks it, but he enunciates each letter with the same care as he did for the ones before them. Dwalin drapes an arm over his brother’s shoulders once he descends from the dias and Balin leans into him, grateful for their shared warmth. His hands are cold.</p><p>There is the shuffling of feet as some of the dwarrows turn to set their candles in their hands on the ground at the edges of the cave before they exit. Some, like Thorin, are staying. Thorin sinks to his knees, taking a deep breath. He always stays the night, keeps vigil for the departed dead, on this night where it is said that the curtain between their lives and the Halls of Waiting is thin, so thin that they might even be able to hear their thoughts.</p><p>Dwalin kneels down next to him, and so do Dís and Balin. They will stay as well, like they always have. Together, the task is easier. Sharing the pain doesn’t always lessen it, especially not tonight, but it does make it easier to bear. Dwalin feels his shoulder’s brushing Thorin’s, ever so slightly, a spark of warmth between them. Then he consciously slows his breathing, sinks deeper and deeper into the trance they have all been taught as children, for warrior or not, being able to collect your thoughts and still your mind is always useful. He spends the night in quiet conversation with himself and those that are gone.</p><p>When the morning comes, his limbs are stiff and his belly is growling for food, but his mind feels more settled than it has in weeks. None of them speak as they rise slowly from their positions, carefully shaking out their limbs and limping to the front of the cave with the others who stayed. No words are uttered until the entire settlement breaks their fast together in the community hall. Thorin’s voice is rough and scratchy as he gives the blessing over the first loaf of bread.</p><p>The sound of murmured conversations slowly begins to fill the hall, spreading through the room like the warmth of a fire. Dwalin jostles Thorin’s arm ever so slightly and is rewarded with a soft smile in his direction. He doesn’t ask where Thorin’s thoughts have gone that night, if he received any answers or whether the dead remained silent. It is for Thorin to share with him if he so wishes, not for him to demand.</p><p>There will be meals, circles of storytelling, communal eating and remembrance all day, on this day of mourning, where no menial labour should be pursued. Thorin lets Dwalin rebraid his hair whilst he is doing his sister’s. He brings out his harp in the late afternoon, helping to fill the hall with music and song. They retire shortly after nightfall and the meal that comes with it, weariness suffusing their every move, the lack of sleep now making itself known at every second. Dwalin is yawning unabashedly and even Thorin looks like he might drop off into sleep for once.</p><p>Before they can go to bed, however, he tugs at Thorin’s sleeves.</p><p>“Figured we should try something different tonight,” he says. Thorin levers an indulgent smile at him, huffs a quiet laugh.</p><p>“We should?” he asks.</p><p>“Yes.” Dwalin leads him to the baths, where a large tub of steaming water is waiting for both of them. Thorin’s eyes light up when he sees it; he loves the luxury of a hot bath, but barely takes the time to take one, since the work of fetching and heating all the water is still too laborious at the moment, without the complex system of pipes that had once had filled Erebor’s halls.</p><p>“C’mon. Let me help you.” Dwalin reaches out to help Thorin undress, but Thorin raises his hand, indicates for him to stop.</p><p>“Let me,” he says. His hands are soft but sure in their purpose when he begins to unbuckle Dwalin’s belt, draw the tunic off his shoulders, pausing now and then to press a kiss to every bare spot of skin that catches his eye. Each of his movements speaks more of love than a thousand words could and Dwalin bathes in them, closes his eyes to give himself over to Thorin’s gentle ministrations.</p><p>“There, all done,” Thorin finally says, holding Dwalin’s hair aside and kissing his favourite spot between his shoulder blades, before carefully putting it up in a braid so it won’t touch the water later.</p><p>“Thank you,” Dwalin murmurs, taking one more second the enjoy the sensation before he opens his eyes and turns around. Thorin has divested himself of his own clothes already and bound up his hair, and for a moment, Dwalin is overcome by the simple desire to press himself against this dwarrow who carries both his soul and his heart, to feel every inch of his body against him, heartbeat reverberating through his skin, so wonderfully strong and alive.</p><p>“Come here. Before the water gets cold.” Thorin steps into the tub and holds out his hand. Dwalin takes it with a laugh. Water splashes over the edges as they both sink into it at the same time. Dwalin is unable to keep a groan from rising in his throat at the feeling – he has never been quite as into baths as Thorin always was, but he cannot deny that it feels absolutely heavenly just now. Thorin throws him a piece of soap and he catches it, lathering himself first, then running it across his One’s skin. It makes Thorin hum in pleasure and Dwalin makes sure that it is him who takes his time now, giving every inch of Thorin’s flesh the attention it deserves.</p><p>They sit in the tub for a while longer, Dwalin leaning back until his head is pillowed on Thorin’s cheek and he can hear his soft laughter rumble through his chest, vibrating through his own body.</p><p>“I could sit here forever,” Thorin muses, his hands carding through the coarse hair on Dwalin’s chest, tracing his scars with the lightest touch, made even more gentle by the water.</p><p>“You could,” Dwalin agrees. “But at some point, you’d turn into a wrinkled prune and slowly become ice cold as the water cools down. I wouldn’t recommend it.”</p><p>“Are you saying you wouldn’t love me anymore if I was a wrinkled cold prune?” Dwalin can feel Thorin pouting and suppresses a laugh.</p><p>“I’d always love you, you know that. Even as a wrinkled cold prune.” He sits up and turns around, looking at his One. Thorin looks more relaxed than he as in weeks, after this dreaded day and night are finally over. Dwalin cups his face in his hands and pulls him close for a kiss. They take their time with the kiss, slow and relaxed, taste and enjoy each other like they haven’t in days. Dwalin hums in happiness and Thorin reaches up to caress his ear, careful not to disturb the braids keeping his hair out of the water.</p><p>“We should go to bed,” Dwalin whispers when they finally part again. The hot water has had its intended effect – he is clean now, but also endlessly tired, and wants nothing more than to sink into the covers beside his One. Thorin evidently shares his longing, since he just nods. He rises from the bath, but not before pressing one last, lingering kiss on Dwalin’s lips.</p><p>They slip under the covers with a quiet sigh of relief, the exhaustion of the previous days, of the previous<em> weeks</em>, finally making itself known in full force. Thorin reaches out for Dwalin’s hand, intertwining their fingers.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, very quietly. “For the bath. For the vigil. For…everything.”</p><p>“Thank <em>you</em>,” Dwalin tells him with a smile. “For your patience. For your care. For…<em>you</em>.” Thorin laughs quietly at that, turning to his side and draping Dwalin’s arm over his hips. He squeezes Dwalin’s hand and Dwalin squeezes back, burying his face in the soft waves of Thorin’s hair.</p><p>“Always, for you,” he whispers quietly. The only sound that answers him is Thorin’s quiet snoring.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>